Back in the van, he radioed his wife, who ran dispatch from their spare bedroom. “One more job before home?” she asked.
She laughed. “You’re in Epsom, love. There’s no such thing.”
Scrape. Thunk. Pause.
Dave nodded. He didn’t need to ask what “other” meant. In Epsom, with its Victorian clay pipes and post-war extensions, a blocked drain was rarely just water. It was a forensic puzzle.
The email came in at 7:14 AM on a Tuesday. “Urgent: Ground floor flooded. Smell is unbearable. Can you be here by 8?” drain unblocking epsom
Dave frowned. He went deeper. He swapped the corkscrew for the heavy-duty plunger head—a four-inch rubber disc on a steel shaft. He shoved it in, pumped twice, and felt the pressure build. On the third pump, the water in the gully didn’t rise. It fell .
“It’s coming up through the floor drain,” he said, his voice tight. “And the… other one. The staff toilet.” Back in the van, he radioed his wife,
Dave shook his head gently. “The dinosaur didn’t make it.”